Jade Phoenix, the high-flyer, tried to leap to the rafters. The Divapocalypse snapped her fingers, and gravity reversed. Jade floated upward, screaming, until she was pinned against the ceiling like a butterfly in a display case.
“You’re not real,” Lana shouted. “You’re the shame. The part of every woman here who was told to smile, to shake her hips, to lose weight, to be sexy, to be quiet. You’re the monster we made by pretending that past didn’t hurt.” X Club Wrestling Divapocalypse
When they flickered back on, the ring was gone. The mat had turned to obsidian, slick and cold. The ropes were thorned vines. And the fans? They were silent. Petrified. Their faces were frozen masks of horror, because they weren’t watching anymore. They were feeding something. Jade Phoenix, the high-flyer, tried to leap to the rafters
Lana picked up the mic. She didn’t speak into it. She turned it over and saw the engraving: “For those who performed. For those who survived.” “You’re not real,” Lana shouted
“I’m not a Diva,” Lana spat, standing tall. “I’m a wrestler.”